Chimes at Midnight

I lowered my phone, hope and anger warring for control of my emotions. As always, it was easier to let anger win. I turned back to Sylvester. “You threw him out?” I asked, in a low, dangerous tone. “I was asleep for almost eleven hours, and you threw him out?”


“October, I told you we had asked him—”

“No. ‘We asked him to leave so you could rest’ only works if I was asleep for four hours, or six, or maybe, maybe eight, although me sleeping for eight hours when I’m not injured or drugged is such a perishingly rare event that he should have been sitting next to the bed with a bowl of popcorn. Do you understand me? I was poisoned. This stuff is poison to changelings, and the man I love wanted to be with me, and you sent him away. You kept him away from me for eleven hours, and you didn’t tell him what was going on. I know you meant well. But can either of you tell me how in the hell you could believe that was right?”

Sylvester’s mouth moved silently as he struggled to respond. Finally, he bowed his head, and said, “No. I am sorry. I was scared. We were both . . . we were all scared. And I apologize for this, October, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with his fear while I was fighting with my own. I may not love you the way he does, but I love you as if you were my own daughter, and I would have done the same had you been my flesh and blood.”

I glared at him for a few seconds more, but the first heat of my anger was already dying, replaced, however reluctantly, with understanding. What he’d done wasn’t right. It was still the only thing he could think of to do. In his position, I might have done the same thing.

“I’d like you both to leave now, please, so I can get dressed,” I said. “Tybalt will be here soon, and then we’re going to need to get moving. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“October—”

I raised my hand. “Please. Not now. I just want to get dressed, so that I can leave.”

“Okay,” said Quentin quietly. He started for the door. After a painfully long moment, Sylvester followed him. They both looked back at me before stepping out of the room. I didn’t say anything. Yelling at Sylvester had been emotionally exhausting on top of everything else, and I simply didn’t have the energy to deal with them any further.

“We’ll be right outside,” said Sylvester, and shut the door.

This time, when I stood, I did it slowly, letting my body adjust to its condition before I tried to move. The room swayed a little, but it didn’t spin, and I didn’t fall. That was going to have to be good enough, for now. Still taking my time, I walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer, revealing a pair of jeans, fresh undergarments, and a cable knit sweater made of dark gray wool. My sneakers and jacket were there, too, scrubbed clean of traces of goblin fruit.

My stomach growled at the thought of goblin fruit, a thin ribbon of hunger snaking through me like the root of some poisonous flower. I put a hand against my belly, willing the hunger away. It didn’t do any good, and it wasn’t going to. I may be renowned for my stubbornness, but if “stubborn” was all it took to kick goblin fruit, it wouldn’t be a death sentence. I was going to get hungrier and hungrier, and I was going to give in.

The thought made me furious. I welcomed the anger. Half the things I’ve accomplished in my life have been because I was too pissed off to realize that they weren’t possible. I yanked my borrowed nightgown off and dropped it on the floor, beginning to pull on the clothes that had been left for me. My knife was at the bottom of the drawer, along with a new belt to hold it. I strapped it into place, wishing I had a rubber band or something for my hair. Well. Beggars can’t be choosers.